Old Habits Die Hard
by GoddessofSnark
Summary: After a chat with Morris, Romano realizes that some old habits really do die hard.


Disclaimer: I don't own them, Don't own Romano, or Morris, although Scott Grimes is sexy. If you're a producer, don't sue me.  
  
AN: Takes place during Freefall, but Romano doesn't have the helicopter crash on him. I suppose you can change things so that when he walks out at the end of this.  
  
He walked through the swinging double doors of the ambulance bay, intent on getting a breath of fresh air, something he needed after the overpowering wave of nausea he just felt. He needed to clear his mind, and clear the putrid feeling that was filling his body. He could hear the chopper lifting off on top of the roof. What an ironic word, really, chopper. That's exactly what it could do to a person. Chop them up into little tiny bits, cut off body parts with psychopathic carelessness.  
  
He took in a breath of the dirty city air. He didn't like the smog and pollution filled air that resided in Chicago, but it was better than the stale, stagnant, sickening, sterile smell that flooded the ER day in and day out. It was nothing compared to the crisp clean air of northwestern Italy, but at least it was someone fresh, and someone crisp. The wind blew the smog back into his face, but he was used to it by now, he hadn't been to his villa in months.  
  
He regretted coming back to the hospital full time. He had it going good when he was only here in Chicago two months out of the year, if he only came two months of the year, this would have never happened. He'd have both his arms right now, one arm tossing the familiar orange rubber ball to his beloved dog and only friend Gretyl the other holding a wine glass as he watched the waves gently lap against the beach as the sun set.  
  
He still had his villa to return to whenever he wished. He liked Chicago, but there was something about the countryside that he preferred to the dirty city air. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, and caught a new scent mixed with all the vile ones of a city. It was a scent he hadn't smelled this strong in so long, he hadn't smelled it since college, and he found it to be causing him painful memories, memories of times when he was more carefree, before he became so hard, so cruel, so evil.  
  
He stalked across the front of the building, finding the source of the dank, harsh smell. In a little alcove formed by the cement blocks discarded by the renovators, he found him. There was the younger man, crouching down, hiding from the infamous Chicago wind as he brought the lighter up to the freshly rolled joint in his mouth. He was stunned that anyone would dare to do this at his hospital, amazed that anyone could possibly make the same mistakes he had.  
  
He looked at the younger man, stunned for a moment before the other man looked up. Their eyes met, and all he could think of was how this man mirrored himself, he was facing almost the exact image of himself at the other man's age. He was stunned at the similarities; it was why he had to do this. "You, inside now. Sit at the front desk and don't move until I physically come to get you." he told the other man, before walking out of the alcove to clear his head.  
  
It was so tempting to grab the bag, and the still lit joint from the man's hands and retreat back into the life he left behind. It was so tempting; it was teasing him, begging him to just take one little drag on it. His felt his resolve weakening. Didn't they always say that you fall back on a past addiction in times of inner turmoil, in times of need? That described his life now. Tumultuous, convoluted, just plain messy, he still hadn't fully recovered from the things he'd been through in the past year.  
  
He felt himself pick it up, and he rolled it back and forth between his fingers, watching as the end of it burned so slowly. He could smell the sweet smell of it, and stared at the white paper the succulent green leaf was wrapped up in. the med student had left the bag full of the rest of the leaves outside as well, too scared to bring it into the hospital with him. He crouched low against the wall, and he could see the traces of evidence that proved that it wasn't the first time that the man had toked up out here.  
  
He lifted the joint closer to his face, remembering other times, times that were both so much better for him, and so much worse. Days when he had been a carefree med student, doing only scutwork, and not really minding. He had been forced into being a doctor, he didn't really like it, not until much later on in his career, not until he no longer had someone breathing down his neck, constantly pressuring him to do good. It reminded him of days of just sliding by.  
  
He finally gave in to the craving filling his body, and took a deep breath, tasting the sweetly acrid smoke as it seeped into his lungs. It only took a minute for him to realize what he was doing; it only took him a minute to realize that he was digressing; retreating back into a habit he had kicked ages ago. He couldn't afford to start back up now. He knew that if just started like this, it would take him no time at all to fall back upon all of his old habits.  
  
He had worked so hard to overcome them, he'd tried his hardest to stop anything like that from happening, and he'd rather die than see it happen again, he had already lost control once, he wasn't going to surrender his life once again to the overcoming allure of what lay burning in his hand. What lay beyond the smoking leaf in his hand. And he needed to tell the boy that. The boy had such amazing potential, he could see it in him, he had had amazing potential when he was the boy's age too, it took him learning things the hard way for him to realize anything though.  
  
He stuffed the bag into his coat pocket, and snuffed out the remains of the joint with his shoe. He sat there, slumped against the wall for a long minute, trying to figure out what to tell the boy. He would never admit his own mistakes to anyone, ever, but he needed something harsh to tell the boy, to prove to the boy that he couldn't do this, that he needed to get his life on track. He could have Carter talk to the boy, but Carter couldn't do it right, Carter would be too nice, and Carter thought the boy was just an idiot.  
  
No, this was something he had to do, this was his job. He was the head of the ER; this boy reported to him, this boy was his problem. Not directly, the boy had a resident in charge of him, but he was the general superior, this was his ER now, this was his place to be, this was his job. As much as he hated it, this was his place; this was his new place to rule. He couldn't be a surgeon anymore, but he still had a place to rule, he was still in charge.  
  
He stood up, hearing the helicopter take off in the background. He kept his back to the wall; panicking for a long second before he heard it fly off, fly away. As soon as he heard the rotors beat their path out of earshot, he stepped out from the alcove, and stormed in to the ER, not letting any of the fear that he just felt show. There was the boy, sitting at the Admit desk, not moving an inch. "You, my office, now." He stormed towards the exam room that he turned into his office, the boy following meekly behind him.  
  
He gestured towards the chair signaling the boy to sit down before he walked behind his desk. He pulled his lab coat off and tossed it on the counter that once held the various medical tools, and you could almost feel the power, the hate emanating through the thin dress shirt he was wearing, as if the lab coat held it back. Although the other man had a good couple of inches on him, he was undoubtedly the stronger man.  
  
He pulled the bag out and slammed it on his desk. "What is this!" He questioned, loudly. The student flinched as the bag hit the table. "No, don't answer that, I know what it is, what I want to know is why did you have it?"  
  
"T-to relax?"  
  
"I'm the one answering the questions here, if you're going to answer, at least be sure of what you're saying." The boy was scared, you could see it in every breath he took. He was quivering, and looking everywhere but the spot directly across from him where the other many finally took a seat. "Morris, you are a disgrace to this hospital,"  
  
"Does that mean that you're firing me Dr. Ramano?" Romano's lips twitched in between a snarl and a smirk.  
  
"It's Romano, not Ramano, I'm Italian, not a type of soup. And yes, unless you make a serious effort to improve over the next 72 hours, you can kiss any dreams you had of being a doctor down the drain. What even made you want to be one in the first place, you don't look too happy here?" Morris shrugged.  
  
"My dad's a doctor, his dad was a doctor, and they thought I should be one too."  
  
"Well you obviously don't want to be."  
  
"I want to be a musician."  
  
"So did I, believe me when I say even this hellhole is better." There was a small smirk on the older man's face as he said that, the faintest trace of the smallest smile.  
  
"But I'm good."  
  
"Save your wining for someone who cares. Right now I only care about either making you a good doctor, or seeing your ass out the door for the last time."  
  
"So I'm still here?"  
  
"Til the end of the week. It's so much more fun to fire people on Fridays, it ruins their weekends." His eyes danced with humor at his sarcastic line. Morris sat there, looking downtrodden. Romano thought for a minute, trying to find a way to get across to the younger man. "Is all this," he gestured at the table, with the bag on it, "Part of your wanting to be an musician? Think that toking up in the parking lot will make you more of a rock star?"  
  
"No-No sir."  
  
"Well it certainly isn't making you more of a doctor. If you're going to toke, do it on your own time, not when it affects not only your ability to treat patients, but also the reputation of the hospital. What if a patient saw you out there?"  
  
"I'm sorry sir, I wasn't thinking."  
  
"Like hell you weren't thinking. In case you didn't know, this is illegal, and an amount this large counts as "possession with intent to sell." Which means quite a few years in jail, if you didn't know that." Morris just looked down sheepish and embarrassed.  
  
"I'm sorry, it won't happen again."  
  
"Can you say anything other than 'I'm sorry'" The other man said nothing. "I guess not." The voice had lost its sharp edge now, and was instead calm and collected. Almost soothing. "I trust I' don't have to inform you of all the studies that have been performed?"  
  
"About it's ill effects, yeah I know. They have them for every drug. Along with studies proving the benefits." Romano nodded. "It's not that bad, it's easy to relax on."  
  
"I don't care what you use it for, as long as you don't use it at work."  
  
"You're oddly sympathetic for once."  
  
"Don't get used to it." He was debating on whether or not to kick the boy out. It was obvious things hadn't gotten through the thick red hair that covered the boy's scalp.  
  
"No, I think I'll just brag about it." The smirk reappeared on Romano's lips. This man was him, only twenty years younger.  
  
"In which case, I'll fire you on the spot, now out." The man obeyed, leaving Romano in the small room by himself.  
  
The bag still sat on his desk, tempting him, taunting him. It was a relic of his past, but now, seeing it before him, being so close to him, he could barely stand it. He could handle being around the morphine, around everything else that the hospital stocked. He knew the downsides to all of those, he had see what happened, he had felt what happened if you went a little over the edge with the morphine. He knew how close he had come to loosing everything he had worked for.  
  
But now, having this before him. He had seen the studies, seen the pros, seen the cons. He knew how harmless it really was, he knew all about harm reduction, he knew all about how to do things safely, do things right, but the thing that hurt him was the fact that he had so much trouble controlling what he did. He was so controlling in every other aspect, he could control other people's lives, why couldn't he control one small portion of his?  
  
It wasn't like it was an escape for him, it wasn't that. He didn't need an escape; his life was getting back on track. A month ago, two moths ago, almost a year ago, he would have needed it for an escape; now, now things were looking up for him. He needed it to relax more than anything; he was uppity, high strung. He knew that he had been chewing people out, just for the entertainment. A year ago, two years ago, he did it because they had something he could correct, and he did it in a sarcastic way for the fun of it, now, even when they had nothing for him to correct, he still chewed them out, because he derived a sadistic pleasure from it.  
  
That one drag he had had earlier had been so wonderful, it brought back so many memories. Memories of those times in med school, before things had gotten bad, before he had turned use into abuse. He had seen first had, treated patients who had crossed that line before, but it never sunk in to him. Rather much like Morganstern, he had seen how that man had treated hundreds of heart attack patients, but ignored the warning signs in himself.  
  
He had been Morganstern at one point in time, and he had to give the former doctor credit for something, your whole perspective on the hospital changes when you're the one on the gurney. When you're the one looking up at the doctors, knowing your life is in their hands, it's a truly sobering, amazing experience. But now that he had another one, another look at things from a patient's perspective, the bag on the table seemed so tempting.  
  
No one would know, no one would even care. He was the one that no one cared about, the overlooked one, the one that everyone hated that was just there, the one that they all grudgingly put up with. He had once been one of them, he had once been the young hotshot, he had once been the Dr. Pratt of the group. Now he was a nobody, now he was the surgeon that couldn't practice his craft anymore, he was the hamstrung star.  
  
But he had worked so hard to overcome all of this; he had worked so hard to put all of that behind them. He'd seen Carter, and his trip to rehab, he had known what the other doctor had gone through, he had been there himself. He couldn't fall back on this now, again, in a moment of weakness, he couldn't allow himself to fall onto old patterns, he needed to be strong. He needed to do this, if only for himself, even though he had no one else to impress.  
  
He didn't have a reason not to anymore. He no longer had his parents breathing down his neck. There was no woman he had to impress; all the ones that he wanted had made it clear that they didn't want him. No, he had every reason to fall back on old habits once more; he had every reason to fall into the past rhythm. Nothing was keeping him on the wagon, nothing was keeping him clean and sober but the fact that he hadn't actively sought anything out.  
  
Now he didn't have to search for anything, now it was literally in his lap, now he had his choice, now he could do whatever he wanted. He hadn't been to any of those NA meetings since he had first cleaned up, would it really make a difference if he went back to it now? It really wouldn't, there was no one there to stop him. He hadn't seen the man who had sponsored him in ages, for all he knew the old man probably kicked the bucket.  
  
He got up from his desk, and paced through his office for a long while, constantly looking at the bag. He hadn't gotten through to the boy, just as no one had gotten through to him in time. He tried to save the boy from having the same fate that he had, but he had failed. He just hoped the boy wouldn't learn to sober up through the same way he had. Looking up at the world, looking at the doctors when you had a tube down your throat sucking up the charcoal that they had forced down it, shivering, cold, and sick from withdrawal.  
  
He needed more fresh air, in here; it was just too tempting, too teasing. He picked up the bag, and stuffed it back in his pocket, before tossing on his coat. He needed to walk, he needed to think, and he needed to question himself. He needed to question the control he had over his life. Just when he started to have the most control over everything here came something that would mess up everything that he had built up over the past twenty years.  
  
The more he thought about things though, the more he wanted to fall back on it, the more he wanted to do the same thing that Morris did. He needed it to relax the same way the boy did, he needed something to help him. There was the supply of morphine, of vicodin, of everything he wanted here in the hospital. But he learned too hard what they did to him. This, this was harmless; this was proof to him that old habits die hard. 


End file.
